PART 3

I read the sentence again.

Daniel, ask Tessa who really received the money—and why she believed I would never find out.

The paper trembled between my fingers.

“What account is this?” I asked.

Emily looked at the statement, then at me.

“I’ve never seen it before.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s in my name.”

“That doesn’t mean you knew about it.”

I stared at the transaction history.

Every month, usually within two days of the first, money had been transferred from the account to a company called Morrow Advisory Group.

The amounts varied. Two thousand dollars. Four thousand. Once, nearly twelve thousand.

The first transfer was dated six years earlier.

The most recent had been made three weeks ago.

“Do you recognize the name?” Emily asked.

“No.”

But my mind had already begun searching through old conversations, old contracts, old names I had seen on spreadsheets without bothering to remember them.

Morrow.

Something stirred.

“Tessa’s last name is Morrow.”

Emily went still.

I looked at the printed email again.

Tessa’s response had been written eleven months earlier.

I know about the account. Daniel told me. He said you were the one who emptied it.

The wording seemed different now.

Not confusion.

Not surprise.

Knowledge.

She had known about the account before I had ever told her it existed.

I reached for my phone.

Emily caught my wrist.

“Don’t call her angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“You are.”

“I want an explanation.”

“Then ask for one. Don’t decide what it means before she gives it.”

I pulled my hand away.

“You’re defending her?”

“No. I’m asking you not to turn this into another story where you’re the only person who was deceived.”

The accusation was quiet, which made it worse.

I called Tessa.

She answered after the fourth ring.

“Daniel?”

“Where are you?”

There was a pause.

“Driving.”

“Come here.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

Silence.

That silence told me more than her words could have.

Emily stood and walked toward the window, giving me the privacy of not watching my face.

“Tessa,” I said, “come to the apartment.”

“Is Claire’s box there?”

My breath caught.

“How do you know about the box?”

She exhaled.

“Because Claire told me she was leaving it.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“You spoke to her yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“About the account?”

“Daniel—”

“Come here.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Then tell me who Morrow Advisory Group is.”

Another silence.

This one lasted long enough for me to hear the faint rush of traffic through the phone.

“I’m coming,” she said.

She arrived thirty-two minutes later.

By then, the sun had disappeared behind the buildings, and the windows reflected the apartment back at us: three people standing in a room that no longer felt like mine.

Tessa removed her coat and held it in front of her as if she needed something to occupy her hands.

Her eyes moved to the open box on the dining table.

Then to the statement.

She looked tired.

Not surprised.

Tired.

I pointed to the chair across from me.

“Sit.”

Emily gave me a warning look, but Tessa sat down.

I remained standing.

“Who owns Morrow Advisory Group?”

“My father.”

The answer was immediate.

“And what does the company do?”

“Financial consulting.”

“For whom?”